for people who care about the West

Repo Manic

At 5 foot 9 inches tall, Gary Autry doesn’t
cut a towering figure, but his broad shoulders and bulk give the
42-year-old former high school linebacker a commanding presence. He
wears a wide-brimmed cowboy hat, drives a gigantic tow truck, and
listens to "new country" at full blast. A wad of sunflower seeds
stuffed into a cheek, he squints into the sunrise, waiting for me.

"No mood for silly crap today," he shouts over the radio,
spitting shells as I hop into the cab. A standard greeting from my
old neighbor. "What about non-silly crap?" I offer, adjusting the
radio volume downward. "A more sensible and judicious order of
nonsense?"

"College boy," he calls me whenever I need
help fixing anything from my swamp-cooler to my car. He delights in
my utter lack of practical knowledge. Today, I owe him for his
recent help with home maintenance matters.

First, we hit
his office. Hedged in by chain-link and a hodgepodge of autos, the
repo company Gary works for is housed in a doublewide in the
wasteland of junkyards and auction lots flanking
Albuquerque’s South Broadway Avenue. Inside, a yellowed
certificate of membership in the repo industry’s foremost
trade association, the American Recovery Association, hangs against
wood paneling. Beneath it sits a computer monitor, where a
researcher named John rifles through police records.

"They (the debtors) know they’re wrong," John says. "We
don’t get assignments after a few late payments. We’re
the last resort."

As last resorts go, repo companies can
turn a decent profit if they work quickly and continuously. In the
back of the office, a third employee, Ana, organizes accounts,
deals with clients (banks and car dealers), and adds a welcome air
of femininity. "Be careful, Gary. This one deals dope and has
threatened to shoot," she says, describing our quarry.

Back on the road, as my nail-biting habit flares up, I ask Gary how
he so nonchalantly faces such daunting enterprises. "No matter
what," he says, "people can see reason. You just have to help them
see it sometimes, gentle but firm." Indeed, repo work is as much
psychology as it is detective or bounty-hunter work.

Of
course, a degree in lunacy helps, and Gary’s curriculum vitae
is impressive: He once fired a gun at his TV because the Sacramento
Kings lost a playoff. Another time, he branded himself. The canvas
of his bicep didn’t quite yield the desired aesthetic, but
like the cattle that once grazed his great-granddaddy’s
pastures, he now bears the mark of the Diamond S Ranch. It occurs
to me that Gary can transform adversity into calculated adrenaline,
an asset in the relatively new repo industry.

In the
past, lending criteria made it difficult for those with poor credit
history to get new cars. Repossession was rarely a necessity. But
by the early 1990s, franchises offered skewed loans for risky
borrowers — loans with no money down, or zero interest. The
resulting financial house of cards is stacked on the shoulders of
the poorest, least-educated consumers.

Including, I
suspect, the one we’re looking for today. We’re
traveling into Navajo country, where the scenery distracts me from
the unpleasant business at hand. Mesas and plateaus are visible 100
miles away; it’s like driving through a painting that does
not move as you accelerate into it at 90 mph. Hard to believe
communities are out there, hiding in the cracks; that people are
watching TV, paying bills, neglecting to pay bills.

"This
one lives on the rez," Gary says as we approach Gallup.
"We’ll be lucky if there are plates. They don’t need
’em on the rez."

"We take their land. Now you want
to take their ride?" I ask.

"It’s not their ride,"
he replies, taking the bait. "It’s stolen property."

At the Gallup Mall, where the debtor works, we are lucky,
I suppose, to find a 2001 Escort with a plate that matches the
description. The VIN matches, too. The ashtray is stuffed with
cigarette butts; a dreamcatcher hangs from the rearview mirror.

I unhitch the winch and bring the chains when Gary goes
under the bumper. After securing the car, he hits the lift button.
I nervously scan the parking lot.

On the way back to
Albuquerque, we stop in Grants, stash the Escort, and get the jack
under a 2003 Ford Explorer. But with only one tow, how can we get
two vehicles? Enter Gary’s negotiating expertise. He taps at
a debtor’s front door. A large man wearing a bathrobe
answers. Words are exchanged. Gary returns with keys.

"Some folks know they’re sitting ducks," he says. That the
Explorer contains nothing of value supports the statement. "Plus,
it’s nighttime, neighbors home. If he’s gonna be
difficult, cops come, a scene. … I had to paint a little
picture."

Driving back to the lot in the Explorer, I open
the windows and fill my nose with sage-scented wind. Ahead of me on
I-40, Gary calls my cell to ask if the hazard lights fastened to
the back of the Escort are working.

I stall for a moment,
and, playing devil’s advocate, ask Gary how he’ll feel
come the time his soul is repo’d. "We’re all high-risk
borrowers on the lease of life," I add.

He thinks a
moment and then waxes philosophical: "When I go, I hope I’ve
logged a lotta miles. ’Cause life ain’t about driving a
car you can’t afford, or having the latest, greatest model.
It’s about being able to drive on, even if you’ve been
banged up some on the way. …

"So, are my goddamn
hazards on, or not?"

The author is a freelance
writer in Albuquerque and no longer participates in automobile
repossession jaunts. He can be reached at
benikenson@yahoo.com.